


A Withered Rose

by MlleBree



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleBree/pseuds/MlleBree
Summary: Christine is gone and Erik is ready for eternity. What happens when he finds a little girl who gives him a reason to live?Short story told in vignette-type clips. Updates daily.





	1. Chapter 1

When Christine left, Erik thought he would die.

Well, thought would be an understatement. Erik knew that he would die.

He had resigned himself to his fate, allowing himself to rest on the bed that had belonged to Christine, the elegant, comfortable swan-shaped bed. It was fitting, he supposed, that he should die here, buried in the only remnants left of the woman he allowed to murder him.

The pillow still smelled of her and he took a small comfort from that. Erik had always known that he would die alone, the thought of a living bride too good to be more than a dream. He had always known that, but he had allowed himself to hope against the odds. What had he to lose anyway? And besides, now he had memories which was more than he could say otherwise.

He had dared to hope that she could be his salvation, his last hope for a normal life. And in a way she had offered him salvation; he had tasted love, he had experienced love for the first time in his miserable life. She had showed him compassion. And now? Now he was ready to rest, and ready to die.

But death didn’t come. Miserable as it was his breath continued to come, his heart kept a steady beat in his chest. He willed it to stop, thinking perhaps if he were patient it would slowly grow as weary as he felt. But even in death God evaded him, content to prolong his suffering in a world that had nothing left for him.

The thought of ending it himself had crossed his mind, but ultimately he dismissed the idea. If there was anything he had learned in his life it was that a healthy dose of doubt was necessary, yet nothing was certain. Suicide was easy, so easy, but it was also one of the few unforgivable sins listed in the holy book he had been raised with. Erik had many things to atone for. If there was a God, if there was a heaven, he would not damn himself to an even more sure eternal suffering. Had he not suffered long enough?

And so, after two weeks of a miserable existence that consisted of laying still in Christine’s bed, he resigned himself to the fact that death would not be merciful to him. And with that he rose from the bed, forcing himself to make his way to his kitchen and take stock of what was rotted and what supplies he may need. He made a list in his mind.

He hadn’t any idea what day it was, or what time it may be. But as he made his way to the surface once again, he realized it didn’t matter. He had lost everything he had once cared about - if he were to walk into the gendarmes he would take his punishment gratefully.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he happened upon the girl it was in the dead of summer.

The air was stiflingly warm and the sun had only just begun to peek over the horizon as he made his way into the alleyway of Rue Scribe. At first he had thought that the lump he saw against the wall was no more than a bag of rubbish, but as he drew closer he realized that it was a child.

He was loathe to admit it, but she startled him. The reason he frequented Rue Scribe was because of it’s disuse by the general population. Yet here she was, tucked against the wall near his own door, sleeping.

He was intrigued with his discovery and found himself kneeling in front of her, taking in her image. She was young, he decided. She couldn’t be any more than six or seven. Her skin was tanned with her prolonged exposure to the beating summer sun and her skin was stretched gauntly over his face, her dress nearly hanging off of her shoulders.

She was decidedly malnourished, a little waif of a thing. He couldn’t decide wether she was a brunette or if it was simply mud that caked her hair. It wouldn’t be too surprising considering the streak of dirt across her left cheek and the tattered dress she wore.

Homeless children were not a rarity on the streets of Paris, Erik had discovered that long ago, but rarely did he feel the strange tug of charity he did as he looked down at the young thing.

Unwilling to dwell on it much longer he found himself tucking a few francs into the pocket of her dress, being sure they were tucked away from any passerby’s eye. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to buy her a warm meal when she woke.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it; he didn’t regret his charity by any means. In fact, he found it only continued as he made his way through the market in the early morning, snatching the supplies he needed and leaving far more in their spot than they were worth. What need had he for money anyway? What he needed he could steal, and he had more than enough of a savings himself. If he were to be cursed to walk the earth then he had determined himself to do it with charity. His anger had long burned out, no more than a small fizzle. He was old and he was tired - all he wanted was peace.

She was still there when he returned and he paused only long enough to assure himself that her chest still rose and fell with her breaths before he descended into the darkness once again. 


	3. Chapter 3

The second time Erik saw her was midday in the Summer.

It had become a bit of a game that he played with himself, checking to see if she slept in his alleyway. He only ever saw her in daylight, and he only saw her sleeping. Try as he may he had never quite been able to time himself well enough to find her when she arrived or woke and left.

Whenever he did manage to happen upon her he would tuck a slightly generous amount of francs into her pocket. He wasn't quite sure why he did it, but it brought a sense of peace to him, knowing that she was able to have at least one warm meal a day if nothing more.

She would be a pretty little girl, he thought, if she was properly kept. He found himself imagining her story in his mind. Perhaps she had been a beggars daughter, or a member of the upperclass whose parents had died in some tragic disaster. He liked imagining the latter far more - hopeful that she had spent at least a few of her young years cared for and carefree. He wondered regularly what color her eyes were.

He had taken to sitting in the alleyway beside her for a quarter of an hour at a time, whispering a lullaby to her. His music had died within him when Christine left and his voice was far out of practice, but she still smiled in her sleep, looking truly peaceful when he sang.

He was fascinated by the tiny beggar girl, but he couldn't quite decide why. She inspired something in him, something almost _paternal_ that he hadn't been aware that he possessed. He had always had a weak spot for children, their innocence and uncorrupted kindness, but never had he been moved quite this much by a beggar child.

One that he had never even seen awake for that matter.

But it was there. It gave him a purpose, a reason to get up in the early morning, a reason to trek out into the daylight that he never would have in the past months. He was doing something decidedly _good_ for the first time in his life, and it was a strangely freeing feeling.

And so multiple times a day he found himself making the trek, checking for the little girl who had taken up residency so near to his home.


	4. Chapter 4

As the winter approached Erik found himself more and more anxious for the girl who had become his silent companion.

Though it was far from ideal, at least the Summer sun offered some heat and comfort to those on the streets. The Winter, however, was harsh and many couldn't survive it's hardships. Especially such a frail, young girl.

On the first snow he had found her huddled in her usual spot, curled in around herself with her arms pulled into her dress and her feet tucked into the tattered material of her dress. Even in her sleep she shivered.

And so when he returned from his venture for ink and groceries, it was with a child's cloak clutched in his hand. He had chosen the warmest fabric and the inside was lined with wool - it may not be the most comfortable material, but it would keep the chill off of her skin and that was what mattered. It was long and light pink in color. He was sure in a matter of weeks the train of it would be just as tattered as the dress she now wore, but he couldn't find it in him to be concerned with that.

He was grateful to find her in the same spot upon his return, still dozing.

He knelt carefully in front of her and draped the cloak over her shoulders, letting it hang on her like a blanket. At first she only pulled the fabric closer to her, burrowing further into it's warmth.

When she began to stir he found himself moving into the shadows. By the time her eyes blinked open, he was hidden from her sight.

"Hello?" her voice was young but rough, strained with disuse and hardship.

Green. Her eyes were green. Fitting, he supposed.

"Who is there?"

He remained silent, only creeping closer to the shadows as her eyes moved over the alcove he was in.

She sighed and rubbed at her eyes with her hand and then looked down at the cloak as though she had never seen such a thing.

"I know you're there," she called. "Why have you been so nice to me?"

She pulled the fabric closer to her, shivering under it.

She blinked as she looked over the alley once more.

"Perhaps you are an angel," she had murmured it under her breath, but he had heard it all the same.

He felt a strange ache take it's place in his chest at her words. And after taking a moment to reign in his rage at the insinuation, he sighed. "I am no angel," he said calmly, stepping out of the shadows and into the light. "I am Erik."


	5. Chapter 5

She stared blankly at him for a moment, her eyes starting on his meticulously polished shoes and traveling slowly upward until she was looking at his mask.

He nearly flinched away under her gaze but he held strong, allowing her silent appraisal of him.

Her eyes never left his face. "Why have you been so kind to me, Monsieur?"

He shrugged his shoulder slowly, eyeing her carefully. "You were freezing and starving. Am I supposed to idly stand by and allow you to?"

She made no response, looking up at him as though she were confused. Eventually he sighed. "What is your name?"

"Annabelle, Monsieur," she said quietly. "Are you going to call the gendarmes on me?"

She looked so frightened by the prospect that he found himself taken aback.

"Have you stolen from me?" He asked. Her head shook slightly. "Have you or will you make any attack on me?" Here she shook her head again. "Then what reason would I have to?"

Her little shoulders raised in a shrug to mimic his own. "That's why I sleep here now," she said carefully. "Someone sent them to me in the park - I'm sorry if I was in your way. I've never seen anyone down here before and I thought it would be safe."

She was looking down and picking at her skirt.

"Where are your parents Annabelle?"

She shrugged again and began to pick at one of the tears in her skirt. "They went on a trip and never came back."

He sighed and leaned toward her, and with slow movements so as not to startle her he re-situated the cloak so that it rested over her shoulders. He clasped it for her and pulled the hood up over her head.

And in a moment of thoughtlessness he held her hand out to her. "Come with me Annabelle."

Her cold, fragile hand hesitantly slid into his offered palm.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik was quite certain he had lost what was left of his admittedly fragile mind. That was the only reasonable explanation he had for the dirty little girl that now sat in his favorite armchair in front of the blazing fire.

He had divested her of her new cloak and insisted that she remove her muddy stockings. She had been compliant enough, not even questioning him when he bade her to sit.

He had run her a warm bath and begrudgingly parted with one of his dress shirts. She was short and it would be adequate enough of a covering until he could locate something more suitable.

As she bathed he considered his kitchen, deciding a warm stew would be the best choice for a hearty dinner. She was weak with her malnourishment, and though he knew she would require a more steady supply of sustenance he supposed that it would be a good start.

She was decidedly less tan than he had though and he shuddered with his realization of exactly how dirty she had been. Her hair was a golden blond, a stark contrast to what he had thought had been brown hair. A stark contrast to the mass of curls that had been his Christine's. Her's was straight and long, hanging nearly to her waist.

She stood awkwardly in his dress shirt, twisting the far too long sleeves in her hands.

"Monsieur?" she asked nervously.

"What is it?" he was distractedly leading her into the bedroom that had been Christine's.

"How long will I stay here?"

She hung about at the threshold of the doorway, looking every bit like the lost child she was.

He located Christine's brush shortly - it would have to do, it was no use to leave it unused anyway.

When he turned back and saw the saddened look on her face he was moved.

He knelt shortly in front of her, holding the brush out to her and waiting until her unsure fingers clasped it to speak.

"My dear, frightened child," he said softly. "You will stay only as long as you wish to."

She blinked up at him. "You wont send me away?"

For the first time in a long time, Erik found himself laughing. "No," he said when he regained his composure. "No, I will not send you away."

With that he watched as a bright smile spread across her face as she suddenly flew toward him. Before he had time to realize what was happening her arms had wrapped around his waist and her face was pressed into his less than comfortable stomach.

Caught completely off guard by her joyous attack, all he could manage to do was rest one hand on her back and hold back the tears that were suddenly threatening to spill.


	7. Chapter 7

"You are no prisoner here," he had said to the little girl. "You will be free to come and go as you please. I only ask that should you decide to go out you allow me to accompany you to the alleyway."

"I don't want to leave," she argued. She had found her place on his expensive Persian rug, sitting perhaps a bit too close to the blazing fire. He had no wish to scold her for it, though. Not when she had been so terribly cold only a few hours before.

"One day you will," he said quietly. They always did, didn't they? No, he could never allow himself to believe that anyone would be willing to shut themselves away in the darkness with him forever. He had learned that lesson with Christine, and he had no wish to renew any of that hope. "Even if only for a few hours," he amended. "And when I take you up I will show you how to ring the bell. You will not wander these hallways without me - you will ring the bell and wait for me to come to you. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," she murmured with a nod, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her chin on them.

He couldn't explain the amount of relief that he felt with her assurance. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he would feel guilt at her injury. In a way he felt responsible for her - he had taken her into his home, given her a warm meal and a shirt. He hardly knew this girl and yet he felt such a connection with her.

"Monsieur Erik?" she asked with all the innocence of a child.

"Yes, little Annabelle?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He sighed at her question, his fingers twitching at his side. "How old are you Annabelle?"

Her nose scrunched up at the question. "Six… at least, I think. I was six on my last birthday."

He nodded at that. As much as he expected the answer, he couldn't deny the sadness it instilled in him.

"When I was about your age I lived in the streets too," he admitted. "And they are harsh and cold. The streets are dangerous and they are no place for a child. I am an old man now, and I think - I think that if I can brighten one child's life - one little Annabelle's life, perhaps it is all worth it."

She was fiddling with the trimming of his shirt that hung about at her ankles. "I promise I wont steal anything," she whispered.

He found himself laughing at her childish reassurance. "I believe you, little Annabelle. But it is late, and I think it is time for sleep."


	8. Chapter 8

He gave her Christine's bedroom.

It had been a difficult thought, at first, the thought of someone else, some stranger using the bed that had only been intended for his angel. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. What use was there in keeping a bed empty for a ghost? More and more it seemed that was all she was. At times he found himself wondering if she had just been some wonderful, terrible dream of his fevered mind. He knew, of course, that she was real. He remembered all too well the feeling of her warm lips against his, her fingers brushing over his neglected face. She was real, and now she was nothing more than a ghost of memory.

And there was no use in keeping a shrine to the ghost that had nearly killed him - not when there was a little living, breathing girl who needed it so desperately.

She had been so excited at the sight of the room, her entire face lighting up. "It looks like it belongs to a princess!" She had said, her little fingers still wrapped around his as she stood back in the doorway.

"It's all yours, little Annabelle," he had said, prodding her into the room that he still found it difficult to enter.

When she did a running jump onto the swan shaped bed he found that it took all of his will power to keep from scolding her, reminding himself that she was a child; she was bound to be over-excited. She would break things, she would get dirty. And he had just given everything in the room to her.

He made a decision then, a difficult one but the right one. She had inherited all that was left behind - a hair brush, a hand mirror, a few hair ribbons. The rose scented soap - he had held onto these small objects for far too long, insisting to himself that he would always protect them, preserve the memory of what might have been.

But those things belonged in another life now. What was the use of a small red ribbon? And so the trinkets were passed onto his new little house guest. The music, he contented himself with the music they had shared, the few drawings that he had - and the wedding dress, the one that he had moved into his own bedroom shortly after she had left. The rest he would leave to little Annabelle - all of the womanly things that he had never quite understood, the little trimmings that girls seemed to desire so much.

As it was he had no use for them.

And after allowing her a short exploration of the room he found himself putting her to bed, pulling the covers up around her as she burrowed into the pillows.

He showed her how to dim the oil lamp at the bedside. Christine had always been afraid of the dark, and he assumed she would be too. And so he left the lamp burning at the lowest setting, mumbled a goodnight and found himself staggering out of the room.


	9. Chapter 9

"Monsieur Erik, why do you wear a mask?" She asked with all of the innocence of a child.

It was the ninth night of her stay, a question she spoke casually over her dinner. Truth be told, it was a question he had expected. She was a child but she wasn't stupid by any means - rather he found he had to remind himself that she was a child quite often. He attributed her maturity to her life in the streets - such a thing did tend to force one to grow up rather quickly.

If anything he was more surprised that it took her so long to speak the question.

"Because I am hideously ugly," he said pointedly. If anything positive had come from his time with Christine, it was that he learned that the lies never quite worked.

She giggled at that and he found that he couldn't help but to smile at the purity of the sound. "Why is that funny, little Annabelle?"

"I've seen lots of ugly men," she said. And her smile faltered, something dark rolling in over her expression. "And some that don't look ugly but - but they are ugly. On the inside. But none of them wore a mask."

He looked at her carefully, watching the way she avoided his gaze, pushing the food on her plate around with her fork. He found himself wondering what trauma may have taken her - and yet he found that perhaps it was better not to know.

"I am not ugly like other people," he admitted. "I look - I look like a monster. And I wouldn't want to give you nightmares, so I wear a mask."

"You're not ugly to me," she said quietly. "Maybe - maybe you look ugly. But you've been nicer to me than anyone ever has."

He felt his cold heart warming with her words, the hope he swore he would never allow into his life again returning. And he found himself smiling behind his mask.

"Well thank you, little Annabelle," he said. "You are a very kind girl."

And she looked up at him, blinking her wide eyes. "You wouldn't scare me, cuz I know that you're not a monster."

For a moment he remembered Christine. The anger, the hurt when she had ripped his mask away. Her scream. She, too, had thought that he wouldn't scare her. That she knew him. He had tried to shield her from himself, from the world. It hadn't worked - she wanted to see, and she saw despite his best efforts.

And with blood rushing far too loudly through his ears he found himself asking a question that he never thought he would: "Would you like to see?"


	10. Chapter 10

He led he into his parlor, stoking up the fire until it burned brightly.

"It is scarier, I think, in the dark," he mumbled. "And - and if it is too scary for you I will put the mask right back on." He was rambling, he knew that, but he couldn't quite explain the nervousness that was coiling through his stomach. Never, in all of his life, did he think he would be afraid of a little girl. And yet here he was, absolutely terrified.

"I won't be scared," she said with all the confidence of naivety.

"Are you afraid of monsters?" He found himself asking.

She shook her head at that, twisting her fingers together. "Monsters aren't real," she replied. "People are scarier."

"Do you really want to see it?" He mumbled, hoping against hope that she would suddenly change her mind. But with her nod he sighed. "You have to promise me that you won't scream."

"I promise," she said, impatiently shifting from foot to foot.

His fingers were shaking, so much so that he found the ties of his mask to suddenly be an insurmountable obstacle. But still, he worked at them until they came loose. He closed his eyes - he couldn't help it, he couldn't bare to see the expression on her face, the fear. And with a deep breath he pulled the mask away from his face, suddenly feeling far too vulnerable.

To her credit she kept her promise - there was no scream, no cry, no whimper. Instead there was a long, heavy silence. He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, to look at her. He could hardly bring himself to breathe.

"Am I very ugly?" He finally managed to force words past the suffocating lump that had lodged itself in his throat.

He heard shuffling, her footsteps as she came closer to him. He felt her fingers close around his, holding his hand in just the same way she had when he showed her the bedroom.

"Terribly," she said with the all the honesty that could only belong to a child.

"Are you afraid?"

"No," she said simply.

With that he found the strength to open his eyes, to look down at the sweet little girl that clasped his hand so tightly. And she was smiling.

And then, odd little girl that she was, she was launching herself at him all over again, her arms wrapping around his waist and her face pressed against his waist-coat in a hug that he was sure he would never get used to.

"Monsieur Erik?" She mumbled against him.

"Yes, little Annabelle?" He asked, letting his hand rest awkwardly on the back of her head.

And with all of the markings of a child who didn't quite understand what had occurred she asked; "Do you think I can have pudding tonight? I ate all my supper."

And Erik, feeling as though he could cry, could only say; "I think pudding is wonderful idea, Annabelle."


	11. Chapter 11

She broke the mirror.

It had been expected, of course. She was a child and she was bound to break at least a few items - the mirror was a perfect candidate with its thin glass and brittle frame. That didn't quell the rush of anger that surged through him when he heard the shattering sound of glass.

He found that he was reminding himself that she was a child, that she didn't ever know Christine, that she couldn't possibly know the significance of such a mundane trinket. That he had given the item to her knowing that such a thing might happen; the anger didn't dissipate but by the time he had made the short walk to her bedroom he found that it was at least manageable.

No, it wasn't until he glanced inside of the room and saw her down on all fours frantically picking up the glass pieces with her bare fingers that the anger vanished.

Blood was running down her hands, dripping on the floor, but still she worked, not even pausing for the pain. And when she saw him in the doorway she looked truly frightened.

"Monsieur Erik, I'm sorry! I really am, I didn't mean to," and she began to cry, wiping away her tears and leaving red streaks across her cheeks.

When he stepped into the room, when he knelt beside her to help her clean up the glass, she flinched away from him. It was, perhaps, the first time she had ever truly seemed frightened in his presence and he found himself surprised.

"I didn't mean it!" She cried. "Please don't be angry with me."

Suddenly the mirror didn't seem to matter nearly as much as the little girl that was crumpled on the floor beside him, the white shirt he had lent her stained with finger-shaped spots of blood.

"Let me see your hands," he said, holding his own out to her. She hesitated for a long moment, but slowly she held her hands out to him, flinching the slightest bit when his fingers closed around her wrists. "I am not angry, little Annabelle. It was only a mirror."

"Are you going to send me away now?" She asked sadly, looking down at the ground.

"Now, why on earth would I send you away?" He asked, finding himself truly surprised.

Her tiny shoulders shrugged and she peeked up at him. "I've only eaten your food, and broken your things. You've been so nice to me, and I made a mess."

"Accidents happen, little Annabelle," he said softly. "They are no reason to send you away. Did you break the mirror on purpose?"

"Of course not!" She said quickly.

And he was nodding. "Then I've no reason to send you away. Now, let's go take care of your hands and clean this up. It's almost supper time."


	12. Chapter 12

Annabelle was an odd creature. She did not require the constant attention most children her age seemed to - instead, she seemed happy with steady meals and a warm bed. Erik found himself wondering if she was truly that self sufficient or if she was only so terrified of having to return to the streets that she didn't dare ask for more.

But either way she mostly left him alone.

It wasn't until the third week of her stay that he noticed the imitation. The way she would watch him and walk behind him, muffling her footsteps. He found himself strangely amused by it.

And one night, as he sat reading, he offered her his selection of books. And to his surprise she chose a German novel.

"You read German, little Annabelle?" He had asked in surprise.

Of course she had insisted that she could. And she climbed into the chair across from him, holding the book upside-down in her lap, staring at it intently. And when she would hear the rustle of him turning a page, she would turn a page in her book as well.

The poor girl didn't read German, in fact he doubted very much that she could even read her own native French. But the imitation was sweet in an odd way and he found himself allowing it to continue. What harm was there in it? At least in their little home there weren't too many terrible habits he could teach her.

And besides, her imitation became quite useful when it came to mealtimes. It took him quite a while to trust her with a knife after the mirror incident, but she proved to be quite proficient in the kitchen. Cooking became less of a chore and far more enjoyable with her company.

She would chatter on, telling him all sorts of stories as she cut vegetables at his side. There was a sweetness to it - and to his surprise, cooking slowly became one of his more favored hobbies.


	13. Chapter 13

Annabelle had nightmares.

It wasn't something that he had come to learn about until halfway through the second month of her residence in his home. He wondered if he would have noticed it at all if he hadn't gone above that night - he had grown accustomed to their routine and found that he often went to bed shortly after sending her to hers.

But on this night he had gone above, having accepted the fact that her stay was going to be a bit more permanent than he had originally planned - to raid the costume department for a few dresses that may suit her a bit better than his oversized dress shirts.

He had returned home with three dresses to find Annabelle in his armchair, her feet on the seat and her face pressed against her knees. She was sitting in complete darkness - the only reason he had even noticed her there was her quiet sniffles.

"Annabelle?" He said, causing her to jump.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she mumbled tiredly. "I thought you were asleep - I - I didn't mean to bother you."

"Why are you out of bed so late, little Annabelle?" He asked as he laid the dresses across his love seat.

Her thin shoulders shrugged as she wiped the back of her hand under her eyes. "I just don't sleep good," she said.

"And why is that?"

Her little shoulders shrugged again, punctuated by another sniffle.

He looked at her carefully in the darkness. "Did you have a bad dream?"

She gave the tiniest of nods, wiping her hand under her eyes again.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head and tightening her arms around her knees. "I don't like to think about them."

"You know, I have bad dreams sometimes too," he said, finding himself kneeling in front of the chair. "Do you know what helps me?"

"What?" She mumbled.

"Remembering that dreams are just dreams - they can't hurt us, not really."

"My dreams were real," she confessed, wiping at her eyes again, resting her chin on her knees and looking down at him.

He blinked up at her. He found himself wondering what pain she had gone through - what may have happened to her as he stood by idly for months, allowing her to continue sleeping in his alleyway.

"When I was little like you, people hurt me too," he confessed softly to her. "And I still have bad dreams about it. But - as long as you are here, you are safe. I promise that you are safe here."

"Can you tell me a story, Monsieur Erik?"

The request was so normal, so mundane that it surprised him. And he found himself nodding, lifting her in his arms and carrying her back to bed as he murmured one of the same fairy tales that he had told his Christine.


	14. Chapter 14

It was on a nightmare night that Erik first took her above. That was what he had come to refer to them as - nightmare nights. They were more infrequent than he had first feared, happening at most twice a week.

Usually he would tell her a story, find some small thing to distract her mind until she found herself calm enough to fall back asleep.

But that night she was particularly shaken - she didn't cry, not really, but she had a far away look in her eyes and she trembled. She seemed hardly to hear his words, so caught up in the trauma of whatever horror had come to her in her sleep.

And so he told her that he had a surprise for her, telling her that she must dress.

When he took her hand to lead her up he smiled at her.

"Now, you must be very quiet, little Annabelle - this surprise is only for you and we don't want anyone else to hear us. Can you do that?"

She had nodded, clutching his fingers tightly in hers.

She was a good little companion and she kept to her promise quite well - had it not been for her tight grip on his hand he may have even thought that he had lost her. But as it was she trailed quietly behind him, never questioning their trek through the darkened catacombs, never complaining for the long walk.

And when they came to find themselves in the walls of the opera house she only clung to him tighter at the few quiet voices they heard.

"You are safe, little Annabelle. You are with me and you are safe," he murmured his reminder to her. She nodded but the hand that didn't have a death grip on his was quickly finding its place on his shirtsleeve.

He didn't allow it to dissuade him though. Up and up he led her, only pausing to be sure that her child's cloak was pulled tight around her and that her hood was pulled up before leading her out onto the roof.

He had come there himself on many of his own sleepless nights, finding the fresh air and the view to be refreshing. Tonight fat flakes of snow fell from the sky only lending to the atmosphere.

"Are you afraid of heights, little Annabelle?" He asked.

She shook her head, looking about with wide eyes. And slowly her grip loosened as she walked away, peeking carefully over the edge.

"It's snowing," she said with childlike wonder.

"It is. Do you like the snow?"

She nodded, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as the wind swept over them.

"It snowed on my last birthday," she said. "It's very pretty. Where are we, Monsieur Erik?"

"On top of the world, little Annabelle," he replied softly.

And when she looked back at him she was smiling, her terror all but forgotten.

"Can we come back here?"

"Any time you'd like."


	15. Chapter 15

He had been right when he assumed that she couldn't read. It was an odd discovery - even his Christine, who had been raised impoverished, had enough of a beginning education to hone the skill.

Sweet little Annabelle was not so lucky.

But Erik was nothing if not determined. He had taken her into his home, clothed her, fed her, cooked meals with her at his side. There was a strange feeling of responsibility instilled in him - as such, he found himself overseeing her education.

After all, he had taught Christine to sing. How much harder could it be to teach a little girl to read?

Annabelle proved to be a rather difficult student, far more interested in telling him fairy tales and eating pudding than she was in learning to read.

But still, Erik was Erik and once he decided on something it was seen through.

He found he had to remind himself often not to show his frustrations to her - to make her fear him now would only set her back on months of progress.

He had a temper, a terrible temper, but he was rather proud to say that he had made it thus far without an uncontrollable flair of it - and for both their sakes he did his best to continue the streak.

And in the end, he found his patience paid off.

She had asked him to read her a story - something that had become a nightly routine. She would wash her face and sit in front of the fire while he read to her.

When he had told her no she looked completely devastated in a way that only a child could manage.

He considered giving in but he remained firm, handing her the book.

"I want you to read to me tonight, little Annabelle," he insisted.

She blinked up at him. "But I can't read."

"Yes you can, none of that tonight. I know that you can read - we have worked so hard on your letters."

After a lengthy staring contest and far more pouting than Erik thought he could ever handle again, she sighed and looked down at the book.

And to his surprise, she began to read; not well by any means, but she read all the same, stumbling her way through sentence after sentence. He only had to correct her on three words in the entire passage.

And Erik found himself beaming with pride like he had never known.


	16. Chapter 16

When Annabelle first became ill Erik was beside himself with worry.

He knew it was silly, completely unnecessary honestly. It was a simple cough - a mere common cold. But still, she was so young and frail that even the smallest of coughs shook her shoulders.

He had first confined her to her bed, insisting that she get rest. But Annabelle was a child and before long she was up and about, completely disobeying him.

So he amended his command, allowing her to curl up on the love seat in the parlor and stoking the fire until it burned hotly, wrapping her in blankets. She complained that she was too warm but Erik had rolled his eyes and insisted that she remain wrapped in his makeshift cocoon if she wished to stay out of bed. And so she obeyed, far more willing to sit in the parlor with his company than she was to lay in bed alone.

And so she was a good sport, staying wrapped in his blankets and allowing him to fill her with far more broth than she wanted.

When her cough became nothing more than a mere annoyance he found himself satisfied, finally allowing himself to join her in the parlor.

"Monsieur Erik?" Her tiny voice said. "Will you - I mean, if you would - will you sit with me?"

And she was drawing her legs up, making room for him on the tiny love seat. He nearly refused - such close quarters were never comfortable for him. But she was looking at him with tired, sick eyes and he found himself sighing.

Little Annabelle, who had looked upon his face without so much as flinching, who quite literally trusted him with her life, who he comforted in nightmares and taught to read. He couldn't very well refuse - especially while she was ill.

So he found himself moving with heavy feet and slowly, cautiously, he sat in the space she had made for him.

Her little hand reached out and grasped his - something that he was growing rather used to but all the same amazed him. And then she yawned, turning on her side.

Erik surprised himself when he began to sing. It was something he had promised himself he would never do again - when Christine left she had taken with her some integral piece of him, some piece of his soul that he thought he would never get back.

Yet here he was, holding the hand of a sick little girl and singing her a lullaby.

She seemed surprised when he began to sing, looked like she was going to say something, but instead she blinked up at him. And slowly, as his song continued, she sighed and her eyes began to slip closed. Her grip on his hand began to loosen as she drifted to sleep but he continued to hold it anyway.

And when his song ended and he was sure she was asleep, he began to cry.


	17. Chapter 17

When Annabelle's first menses came Erik found himself at the bottom of a bottle of scotch for the first time in a very long time.

He had done his best to convince her that no, she was not dying and that it was perfectly natural. He had convinced her, at the very least, that there was nothing wrong with her. And steeling himself against embarrassment he had gone into her bathroom, showing her all of the products that Christine had left behind meant exactly for that purpose. He found himself grateful for the fact that he had left everything as it was when she left.

And it was perfectly natural, but that didn't stop Erik's devastation at the event.

He knew that it would happen, of course. He was no fool. But he had thought that he had at the very least a few years - Christine had been eleven when hers first came, and even then he had still thought of her as a little girl. But, as life goes, all little girls have to grow up.

And he couldn't deny that the same went for Annabelle.

She thought of him as a man, had insisted that he was no monster. But Erik knew that it wasn't true, as sweet as it was and as much as he wished for it to be.

He was very much a monster.

He had once thought of Christine in the very same way he did of Annabelle. A sweet, innocent little girl. As sick as it was, his feelings grew with her.

He still wasn't sure exactly when the change had happened, when his intentions had become so twisted, but it had happened. And the thought of Annabelle growing older, becoming a woman, growing into something desirable. The thought sickened him, but he was far beyond trusting himself. Not after Christine.

And he refused to destroy the life of a second little girl - a little girl who should be happy, who should have friends. Who should be able to play in the sun, who deserved a normal life.

He would not allow his own perversion to take that from her.

"The true distortion lies in your soul," those were the words that Christine had breathed to him on the very night she had left.

And try as he might he couldn't deny them.

So with a heavy heart and warm alcohol running through his veins he found himself penning his first letter in what had been a very long year and a half.

And as Annabelle slept soundly in Christine's bed he found himself making the familiar trek to his box, praying that the old woman still checked his letterbox.


	18. Chapter 18

He received a reply on December the 5th, just over a year after he had first found the pitiful little girl invading his home, informing him that there was an opening in housekeeping - hearty work but it came with decent pay, room and board.

How much he had hoped to hear otherwise - that nothing was open, that he would be forced to keep Annabelle for just a little longer.

But when you love someone you let them go. That was exactly what he had done for Christine and Annabelle would be no different. It was for the best, or so he tried to convince himself. And though he had long tried to convince himself otherwise he had grown to love the odd little girl, even though he had yet to speak it aloud.

And now there was no reason to, not when she had to leave.

She was devastated when he told her.

"You're sending me away?" and the childish question nearly broke him, the hurt and betrayal in her voice.

"It will be good for you, Annabelle," he insisted soothingly. "And you will meet other little girls, and make friends."

"I don't wanna meet other little girls!" she had cried. "I'm sorry - for whatever I did, I'm sorry, I wont do it again. I promise!"

He found himself sinking to his knees in front of her, wiping her tears away with his boney fingers. "You've done nothing wrong, Annabelle. You have been a perfect little guest and I am not angry with you."

"You promised you wouldn't send me away," she whined childishly.

All he could do was pull her against him in an awkward hug, his hand rubbing her back soothingly as he shushed her.

"I don't want to leave, Monsieur Erik. I like it here, and with you. I will - I'll clean more, and do the dishes every night."

Her little, still far-too-thin arms wrapped around him tightly, desperately.

"Little Annabelle, you will not mind it so much when you try," he made an attempt at comforting her, never finding himself proficient in the area.

She sniffled, her tears soaking into his shirt. "I will hate it."

His fingers ran gently through her hair. "Why do you think that?"

"Because you wont be there," she confessed.

He sighed. This was difficult enough for him without her ostentatious resistance. "I will not be so very far away," he said softly. "And - and I will visit you on holidays."

"Every one?"

"Every one," he promised gently. "Until you don't want to see me anymore."

Slowly she nodded. "You promise every single holiday?"

"I promise, my little Annabelle."


	19. Chapter 19

It was the following Monday that he had arranged her meeting with Madam Giry.

He had spent the weekend reminding himself that it was for the best, spending long hours staring at himself in the mirror while he repeated what kind of monster he was.

He had wanted to save her and he would, even if it meant giving her up.

It wasn't that he felt anything lewd toward her - no, his affections were more fatherly than anything. But he reminded himself of Christine when he began to second guess his decision - he had begun with a fatherly kind of love for her too. And how easily that had spiraled out of control.

And so he made up his mind. Annabelle would live above, she would work with the other girls, she would make friends and, he reasoned, in only a few months she would probably forget all about her poor old Erik.

There was some comfort to be had in that thought, especially as he led the girl through the darkened tunnels in the walls of the opera, her hand closed so tightly around his.

"It's going to be just fine, my little Annabelle. You'll see," he attempted to mutter reassuringly, hoping that his own doubts didn't manage to bleed through his words.

What he hadn't expected, though, was how shy and withdrawn she was with Madam Giry.

"Erik, are you sure the girl speaks?" the Madam had asked him.

"I can speak," Annabelle interjected, sounding almost offended. "And I can read too. Monsieur Erik taught me."

"I did," he said softly, "and you must promise me that you will practice every night before bed, just like we do at home."

His little Annabelle nodded at that, lapsing back into that same nervous silence, her fingers still tightly wrapped around his.

He found himself kneeling beside her. "You are going to stay with Madam Giry," he said to her. "She will take very good care of you, but you must be sure to mind her, little Annabelle."

The little girl nodded again, wiping away the few tears that managed to spill from her eyes with her free hand.

"You are my brave little Annabelle," Erik said. "And I will visit you - every holiday, you remember?"

"Every single one," she said, trying to force a brave smile onto her face.

And Erik nodded, finding himself caught off guard when the girl flew at him again. He should be used to her hugs by now, he thought, but he never grew used to them.

He hugged her back tightly, pressing the lips of his mask to her forehead.

He had never expected goodbyes to be so hard.


	20. Chapter 20

"Where did you find this girl, Erik?" Madam Giry was quite a confrontational spirit, never one to let him off easily. He was surprised that she managed to wait so long to ask, the girl had been with her for a week now.

"Sleeping in the streets," he said easily. "Just on the Rue Scribe. She was a pitiful thing. What was I supposed to do? Leave her there to die?"

"I'm not scolding you," Madam Giry said. "She's an odd little thing, that's all."

"How is she getting along?" He couldn't help it. So far he had managed to resist the urge to stalk her, to lurk in the shadows and watch after her, but each day it was growing harder and harder.

"Well," the Madam sighed, "she cries a lot. Mostly at night. She has asked me at least six times when Christmas is. She does read, though. She has a voracious appetite for books."

"That is good," he murmured. "It is a good distraction."

"You will break the poor girls heart if you don't come for Christmas," Madam Giry warned.

"I know."

"You will come for Christmas, then?"

"Of course I will. Contrary to popular belief I am not entirely heartless," he snapped.

Madam Giry raised both hands in front of herself. "I never said that you were, Erik."

He squeezed at the back of his neck with his boney hand. "I've already gotten a gift for her," he confessed.

The Madam's eyebrow lifted at this. "And what have you chosen as an appropriate gift for such a little girl?"

"It's a necklace," he said. "Just a little trinket. I don't think she's ever had jewelry of her own before. And - and a few of her favorite books. She made me read them to her over and over before I finally taught her to read for herself."

"I am sure she will love that," Giry said softly, eying him carefully.

"What?" he snapped, not one to ever enjoy her scrutiny.

"You love her," Giry said. "I don't know how this came about - how exactly she came to be in your company, how you managed to care for her. But you love her."

"That's why I had to send her away," he confessed, his hands twisting together. "I love her - I love her like a father loves his child. But I am dangerous, Giry. I cannot trust myself to care for her after - after Christine. How can I? I can't bare to destroy her like I did… like I did…"

"Christine," Giry finished for him. "You are not a monster for falling in love, Erik."

"I can't do that to Annabelle," he argued. "I can't put her through it."

"That is different," Giry said. "Christine, what happened with Christine was an extraordinary circumstance."

"How can you be sure?" his question was strained and desperate, begging for her reassurance.


	21. Chapter 21

Erik found the urge to see her to be far too strong, and just before Christmas he found himself stalking her from the shadows of the opera.

She was a good little worker. She never complained when she was made to scrub the floors, and she ate her food without comment.

She was quiet, though, and he found himself worried over that.

While the other girls her age chatted on and played games, Annabelle sat by herself with a book.

She had promised she would practice her reading, and practice she did.

Erik thought that perhaps he should be proud of her for that but he couldn't bring himself to, not when he saw how quiet and tame her spirit had become. She had been such a lively little girl with him and the broken pieces that seemed to remain saddened him.

"I'm going home for Christmas!" one of the little girls announced to her friend, bringing on a flurry of chatter and plans, excitement buzzing from the group.

And one of the girls, as if she had only just noticed her, looked over at his little Annabelle. "What are you doing for Christmas, Annabelle?"

Annabelle looked up from her book, her finger holding her place. "Um…" she said, looking terribly anxious. "I'm staying here I think."

"Well, that's alright," the little girl said. "Lots of people here don't have family and they always sing and play over the holidays."

Annabelle's little face grew bright red at that. "I have family," she said. "They're just very busy. But if he can, my papa is gonna come and get me. I just… I don't know if he'll be too busy yet."

Erik felt a terrible ache in his chest. How much he must have disappointed her, how absent he had been. The poor girl was trying her hardest to be brave, just as she had promised him. But he knew that look, the facade of bravery, the pretend contentedness. He knew it so well and he had forced it on her.

"Well, I hope you get to see your papa," the little girl said, smiling at Annabelle.

Annabelle nodded, returning to her book and ignoring the girls as best as she could.

Erik went home that night feeling truly low, like the scum of the earth. He had always known that he was a bad man, but never had he broken his own heart so thoroughly.


	22. Chapter 22

Erik was incredibly nervous come Christmas.

He couldn't tell why exactly it was. Perhaps it was his fear that she was unwilling to forgive him, perhaps it was the thought of having to say goodbye again. Either way, it was a feeling he couldn't shake.

He had arranged it carefully - Madam Giry would bring her to the chapel where he would be waiting. It was a safe place for their visitation, they would have privacy. There was very little danger in it with the opera being as deserted as it was.

And yet, as he stood there in the chapel with the books at his feet and her little necklace clutched in his hand he felt a nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

She hardly gave him time to realize she was there before she was flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms around his middle tightly.

"Erik, you came!" and she sounded so excited, so surprised.

"Of course I came, little Annabelle," he said, letting his hand smooth her hair as he always had. "I promised you I would. I even brought you gifts."

He thought that would be enough to excite her into letting him go, but it didn't seem to be. She clung to him as though she were afraid he would vanish if she let go.

"Have you been getting along well, little Annabelle?" He asked softly.

"It's been alright," she lied, finally releasing him. "I miss you, though. And cooking dinner. Oh - but I made you something too!"

With bright eyes she was presenting her gift - a crude drawing of two figures, one impossibly tall and dark with a blank face, holding the hand of a little girl.

His heart clenched once again. "I will treasure it forever, Annabelle," he said truthfully.

"I'm sorry that it's not better - I'm not a good drawer and I was too scared to go out alone and buy you something."

"This is much better than anything you could buy, Annabelle," he said softly. "This is from your heart."

She seemed embarrassed at that and quietly, while looking down at her feet; "We have a week of leave from work," she began, sounding nervous.

"I know you do," he said softly, knowing what was to come. She was silent at that, biting her lip. "Go ahead, what is it you want?"

"All of the other girls are going home," she whispered.

"And you want to come home," he finished. "Is that it?"

She nodded, refusing to look up at him, tears welling in her eyes.

And, against his better judgement, he sighed. "You can come home, little Annabelle. I want you to come home too."

"Really?"

"Really," he answered. "I miss you too."

She flung her little arms tightly around his middle again, pressing her cheek against his waistcoat.


	23. Chapter 23

Annabelle loved her necklace. As soon as he had presented it to her she had begged him to help her put it on, and halfway through their week together he had yet to see her without it.

"It's so pretty," she had said in that charming way that only a child could. "I've never had a necklace before - and now I can remember you when I'm lonely or when I have a nightmare."

"Are you still having nightmares, little Annabelle?" he asked her.

She nodded, her eyes growing dark. "More lately. But they're just dreams and they can't hurt me, right?"

"That's right," he said softly, feeling the guilt blooming in his chest again. "What do you do, when you have a nightmare?"

She shrugged her shoulders, looking suddenly shy. "I sing sometimes. I remember that time when you sang to me, and I sing that one. I'm not as good at it as you are but it helps. And then, sometimes if I still can't go back to sleep I read."

"You remember when I sang to you?"

"I do," she said. "You are a lot better than those opera people are."

She helped him cook every dinner that week, and he found that he had forgotten how much he enjoyed her company in her kitchen. He was glad to find that her tempered spirit only seemed to come out when she was above.

Here, with him, she was the same sweet, excited girl she had been when he first found her.

Her stories had grown and he could only assume that they had been inspired by her time around the opera.

And at night he would tell her stories, just as he had before he sent her above.

She insisted on remaining close to him, and one night she even fell asleep as he wove a story for her, her little head leaning against his upper arm and her warm breath seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeve.

He should scold her, tell her that it was inappropriate to be so close, to fall asleep in a man's company in such a way. But he couldn't bring himself to. She was so sweet, so innocent, and just as she had called him her papa to the other girls he saw her as a daughter.

And surely it was not so inappropriate for a daughter to fall asleep while her father told her a story.

With each passing day he found himself dreading their goodbyes.


	24. Chapter 24

"Monsieur Erik, do I have to go back up?"

It was something that she had asked a few times over the course of the week and each time his answer was the same.

"Yes, little Annabelle, but you will see me soon."

It was getting harder and harder to stick to his resolve though. He had found himself to be so incredibly content over the week that he even found he was asking himself the same question.

He stuck to his resolve though, each time he nearly faltered reminding himself of Christine. Of the innocence he had coveted and stolen, of the trauma that he was sure that she still suffered. How he wished he could have been a dream instead of a nightmare.

She would pout with his answer and he would laugh good-naturedly.

"From the way you behave I almost suspect Madam Giry is beating you," he said.

She shook her little head at that. "No, she's nice. I like her, I really do, but I don't want to go."

He sighed at that. "Madam Giry says you don't get along with the other girls. Is that true?"

Her shoulders shrugged haphazardly.

"Why don't you?"

"I dunno, I just, they're nice enough."

He found himself kneeling down in front of her, smoothing her hair. He wondered if all little girls' hair got as frizzy as his Annabelle's did.

"If they are nice," he said, "then why do you not try to make friends with them?"

She shrugged again, looking down at her feet and avoiding his gaze. "I dunno."

"Yes you do," he insisted. "You have a reason, I know you do. So what is it? You can always be honest with me, little Annabelle."

When she looked back up at him the tears in her eyes surprised him. "I keep hoping you'll forgive me," she said. "For whatever it is that made you send me away and that… that you let me come back. But if I make friends and I'm not lonely then you wont let me come back."

He was caught off-guard by her confession. "I don't know what you think you did wrong - there is nothing you need to be forgiven for, little Annabelle. Even if you do make friends I will come and see you, just like now." His thumbs wiped at her tears.

Her thin little arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her face pressing against his chest.

She sniffled for a bit, the tears dampening the collar of his shirt, and he let her stay there, letting his own hand rest on her back as he truly wondered if he was doing the right thing.

"Monsieur Erik, will you tell me a story please?" she whispered through her sniffles.

"Of course, little Annabelle," he replied, lifting her easily and taking her into the parlor where a warm fire waited for them.


	25. Chapter 25

Annabelle was an incredibly well behaved, polite girl.

At least that's what Madam Giry would tell him. He didn't have trouble believing it, though. She was on her best behavior, hoping that he would come rescue her like she was a little tortured Princess.

And how he truly wanted to.

"You are certain that she is getting along fine?"

Madam Giry sighed in exasperation. "Do you want the truth, Erik, or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?"

He rubbed his hands together nervously, contemplating his answer carefully.

"I want the truth," he finally said.

"Very well," Giry said, eyeing him closely. "She gets along well enough. She is a hard worker. She tries to pretend that everything is fine but she's terrified - what she's terrified of I'm not sure. She is more than happy to scrub the stairs, the floors, but she refuses to clean the backstage unless it is during a rehearsal. She avoids the stagehands as though they are lepers."

"That is - that's for the best, anyway," he said. "They are a rather untrustworthy group."

"She's heard the stories, Erik."

He sighed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "What stories?"

Giry looked at him as though he had grown a second head. "The ones about you, Erik. The ones about the Opera Ghost."

He nodded at that. He had expected that the stories would come to her one way or another. "What does she say?"

"Nothing," she said softly. "She says nothing, only sometimes she will say that fairytales are bad and that maybe the Ghost is just lonely and needs someone to be kind to him."

"I wonder if she realizes," he murmured.

Giry shrugged at that. "I can only imagine that she's been able to piece it together. She is a bright young girl."

"I need to see her," he said suddenly, unable to keep the thought inside of him any longer.

She nodded slowly. "I'm sure I can arrange it on Sunday, when everyone is at service. She will be able to slip away without anyone paying her much mind."

His hand twitched at his side, suddenly nervous. "Only if she wants to see me," he amended. "I do not - I will not let it be forced upon her."

"She wants to see you, Erik."

"How can you be certain?"

"She asks about you constantly," Giry answered with a small smile. "And she keeps asking when our next leave is. Did you know that she calls you papa? She tells me all the time that she is ready for leave because she misses her papa."

That incessant ache found it's way back into his chest, rooting deep in his bones. "I know that she does," he breathed. "Giry, what if - what if I'm wrong? What if this is not where she should be? Not what she needs?"

Madam Giry shrugged one shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Only you and her can answer that, Erik."


	26. Chapter 26

"Erik!"

She always greeted him with the same exuberant exclamation, launching herself into his arms.

"I've missed you too, little Annabelle," he said softly, pressing the lips of his mask to her forehead.

"Did you come to take me home?" her words were so hopeful, and he felt that ache take root again.

He knelt in front of her. "No," he said. "But I missed you and I wanted to see you."

"I've missed you too," she said sadly. "Will you still come for Easter? There is another week of leave and I was hoping…"

"Of course," he said softly, cutting her off. "I will come and get you, and if you want to you will come home."

She smiled at that, looking satisfied enough with his promise.

"I hear that the girls have been telling you ghost stories," he chanced.

She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her Sunday dress. "They have."

"Is there anything that you want to ask me, Annabelle?"

She bit her lip, her fingers closing around the necklace that he had given her. "Are you the Opera Ghost, Monsieur Erik?"

"I am," he said softly, watching as her brows knitted together.

"But the stories aren't true," she said defiantly.

"Well," he said, "some of them aren't. But some of them are."

She continued to play with her necklace. "You hurt those people?"

He sighed. This was it, she would never want to come back to him. She would remain safe in the walls of the Opera House and she would no longer haunt his conscious.

"I have done a lot of very terrible things in my life," he answered.

She was looking at him carefully with wisdom that was far too clear for her age. "So you really loved that lady."

"With everything I had," he answered softly.

"And it was her dresses in my closet at home."

Erik nodded gently at that. "Everything in that room was once hers."

Annabelle looked up at him, nervousness in her eyes. "You would never hurt me, would you?"

"Never," he promised softly.

"If it meant so much, why did you give me all of her things?"

He reached out, letting his knuckles brush her cheek. She didn't even flinch away from his touch. "Because you needed it," he answered simply.

"Monsieur Erik?" she sounded so timid and shy.

"What, my little Annabelle?"

She was wrapping her arms around him in another of her hugs.

"I love you," she said, the words wavering.

All he could do for a long moment was stroke her hair, pulling her tightly against him. "Oh little Annabelle, I love you too."


	27. Chapter 27

Erik took to stalking her through the hallways throughout the days.

He had resisted for a long while, insisting to himself that she needed privacy, that she needed to learn how to live without him.

That resolve broke. It was healthier, though, he reasoned, than drinking every night. And without seeing her that's what he found himself doing, trying to distract himself and drown his worry for her with spirits.

It hadn't worked.

And here he was, creeping through the false walls like a lunatic.

That was what he was though, wasn't it? A lunatic.

The only one who would argue with him on that front was the one he was now stalking through the hallways of the opera house.

She was mostly quiet, she worked hard through the days, scrubbing at the floors and laundering costumes.

There was one stagehand, though, that she flat-out avoided.

If he happened to be in the hallway she was in, she would turn immediately, sometimes even running as she weaved through the crowd in an attempt to get away from him.

Erik found himself wondering if she knew him - and if not, why she was so skittish around him.

He was one of the more put-together of the stagehands. His clothes were always clean and he rarely reeked of booze, he was coherent and even charming in any way that a stagehand could be.

Even Erik would admit that there was something off about him though. He was particularly off-put by the way he looked at his little Annabelle when he did manage to spot her before she ran. There was something lewd and menacing there, a danger that was almost palpable in his gaze.

Erik arraigned his next visitation with Annabelle for a Wednesday, insisting to Madam Giry that she was to be relieved of her duties for the night.

Annabelle had greeted him as she always had - excitedly flinging herself into his arms.

"Why are you here?" she had asked excitedly.

"I missed you, little Annabelle," he said again, playfully tugging at her braided hair. "And I thought that perhaps you would be interested in a surprise."

"What kind of surprise?" she asked excitedly, smiling up at him.

He was kneeling in front of her again, finding he much preferred to converse with her when she could look directly at him.

"You're not afraid of heights, right?" he asked softly.


	28. Chapter 28

"What is my surprise, Monsieur Erik?" Annabelle asks as he led her through the darkened tunnels in the walls of the opera.

"Well it wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, now, would it little Annabelle?"

She huffed impatiently. "Will I have to wait very long to find out?"

He stopped in his tracks, causing her to bump into him the the narrow hallway.

"Not so very long," he said, looking at his pocket watch. "Only just under two hours."

Her fingers were wrapped around his and her second little hand found his shirtsleeve.

"After my surprise can I come home? We could make dinner and… and you could tell me a story."

He sighed. Each time she asked it was harder to deny her.

"Not yet, little Annabelle. You must be patient, Easter is coming."

She pouted but he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "We are almost there, little Annabelle."

"That's a lot of stairs," she said, looking up the narrow walkway.

"It is," he said, leaning down and pulling her up into his arms. She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Tuck in your head and legs, it's a very narrow staircase."

She obeyed, letting her temple rest against his shoulder.

"Are you excited, little Annabelle?" he asked her as he made the long trek up the stairs.

"Mhm," she said, snuggling into his arms.

And when he made it to the top he continued to carry her on through, through the little door that rested in the middle of the circular hallway.

When she finally looked out she gasped.

"You have never seen an opera like this, little Annabelle," he said, finally setting her down on the walkway that went around the very upper level of the auditorium.

"Do you always watch from up here?" she asked, looking up at him with bright, excited eyes.

"Not always," he admitted. "But it is a great seat, is it not?"

Her hands were on the railing as she peeked down at the stage.

"I'm usually there," she said, pointing at the middle left spot of the stage. "And I sew the tears in the costumes."

His hand found the back of her head, stroking her hair gently. There was something so incredibly content in the moment that he couldn't quite grasp what it was.

"You have never been able to just watch an opera, have you little Annabelle?"

Her head shook at that. "I hear it, and I've seen the stage, but I've never watched one like the normal people."

He laughed at that. "You are a normal person, little Annabelle."

She looked up at him and shrugged. "I guess so."

"Normal or not," he said, "I think you will enjoy it. I hope that you will."

"Monsieur Erik?"

"Yes, my little Annabelle?" he asked, looking down at her.

"Can we do this again?"

And her little eyes were so bright and excited, so content that all he could do was nod. "Of course."


	29. Chapter 29

Erik regretted not planning for seating; yet at the same time he savored the moment. They had sat upon the floor together, looking down at the audience and the stage from far over everyone's head. By the end of the third act little Annabelle had fallen asleep, leaning heavily against his side.

He waited until long after the audience had dispersed to attempt to wake her. It made no difference - his path was clear, weaving between the walls of the opera house - but he enjoyed the quiet moment far too much to cut it short.

She woke only briefly, mumbling something incoherent under her breath and rubbing at her eyes, to which Erik could only smile. He lifted her easily into his arms and her own tiny arms wrapped around his neck, her head sleepily lulling against his shoulder.

"Thank you, Monsieur Erik," she mumbled against his shoulder.

He couldn't help but to lift his mask just the slightest bit, pressing his lips softly to the top of her head. Her hair smelled of peaches, a stark contrast to the rosy smell that Christine's hair had sported.

"We will do this again sometime Annabelle," he promised quietly as he carried her through the labyrinth of tunnels.

She sighed happily, her forehead pressing against his throat.

He was tempted that night to carry her back to his home, to send word of her resignation, to keep her with him where he could always keep her safe, where she would always be cared for.

Instead he carried her back into the chapel, finding Madam Giry nervously waiting for them.

"You took so long," she complained. "I was worried something had happened."

"Shh," he said quietly. "Don't wake her. We are safe."

Giry looked on knowingly, something soft behind her eyes. "She can be ill tomorrow, Erik. I am sure she could use a day of rest."

He looked down at her, only really able to see the top of her head. "No," he said softly. "Easter will come soon. It's for the best."

He shifted her in his arms. "Annabelle," he said, just a bit louder. "You need to wake up, it is far past your bedtime."

She stirred in his arms and then she was yawning, rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. "Do I have to go?" she murmured through her tiredness.

He set her slowly onto her feet, kneeling down in front of her. "You do tonight, little Annabelle. But Easter is only a month away, and I am sure you will see me before then."

She looked over her shoulder at Giry, and then back to him. "When?"

"Soon," he promised her.

She nodded, her arms wrapping around his neck as she hugged him. "Goodnight, Monsieur Erik."

"Goodnight, little Annabelle," he said softly.

The tired sadness in her eyes when she glanced back at him was nearly enough to break him.


End file.
